beneath the window
of an unsuspecting lot.
Ashes mixed in dirt
under nondescript bush.
Mother’s gone,
long since moved away.
Current tenant leans out,
shakes rug as dust balls fly.
Leg lifted, dog pees,
unaware its daddy’s spot.
Occasionally, in summer’s sun,
butterflies grace his unmarked grave.
Lost too soon . . .
gathered in pews
eyes tear-glistened,
memories spill from pulpit.
Amazing Grace reverberates
voices swell in unison.
Hear us missing you,
lost too soon.
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya prompts us to “Cry Me a River” — write about a song that brings us to tears or makes us melancholy.
Photo from Pixabay.com
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth, you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Khalil Gibran
She’d been left behind by her son and husband many years before. Left to grow old without them. Legally blind. Too much effort to live. Too many pills to remember each morning. Each night.
Now, this cold autumn afternoon, lying in a hospital bed, she simply said Lillian, I’m tired. And I knew. I bent down, leaned close to her ear and whispered. I told her it was all right. Find the light, mom. They’re waiting for you. And she suddenly sat up and smiled. Eyes bright. A broad big smile. And then she flopped back and lay still. The kind male nurse who’d been at her side looked across the bedside at me. He simply nodded. And I nodded back.
golden amber leaves
blow off trees, hit closed windows
nature’s death displayed
Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Merril is our guest pub tender and asks us to write about a transition. A haibun is two or three short succinct paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that, in the traditional sense, contains a kigo (reference to a season).
There is a beauty in the withering . . .
as if through sheer will power
life endures in fragility.
Color long faded
veins protruding
curling inward . . .
Death shall not win
until snow blankets the earth
to comfort its fall.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Mish is hosting and asks us to write a poem in which we find beauty in the ugly. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
i. Hovering
That night . . .
my body turned against me
you praying, willing me to live.
My last breath
words unheard by you.
I am still here.
I hover
in rays of sun
in soft mist beneath grey clouds
in star lit and blackened nights.
My essence ever walks with you.
Savor life, my dearest.
I am content, waiting patiently.
ii. In Absentia
That night . . .
your breath rattled
eyes closed,
never to open again.
Days later
we celebrated your life
even as emptiness suffocated me.
I redecorated yesterday
all mirrors removed.
My reflection without you
too painful, too alone,
reminder of you
in absentia.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to write a poem that somehow deals with opposites or uses the literary device of antithesis. One can include simple words in opposition happy/sad, inside/outside; or describe one event from two opposite viewpoints. The opposition can happen in one poem; different stanzas; or even two short poems. Folks are free to be creative….as long as they deal with opposites! For a different take on the prompt, a satirical one, go to my second post, Mishmash Succotash. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….come join us and write in opposites or just read along!
Raw winds blow. Rusted lock bars entrance to dark, dank family crypt. Souls long forgotten. Generations ceased their lineage, lost in the dust of time. Undisturbed cobwebs ensnare no prey. Nothing lives here.
Steps away, a young mother’s tears salt the ground below open-toed shoes. Her gaze locks on the small white coffin. Follows it lower, lower, and lower still, until its sides are nestled by mother earth. Stunned mourners file by, gently releasing miniature white roses into fresh dug grave. Wind shifts. Breeze rifles through nearby trees. Magnolia blossoms, rift from spring green leaves, rain quietly on forlorn scene.
Rest little one, love shall follow you. Mother, father, sisters too. All will come in time. And more. And more. Until the dust of time consumes them all.
Used for Napowrimo day 28 where the prompt was to write prose poetry. Photo taken several months ago at the cemetery in Valparaiso, Chile. Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Thursday, May 3rds OLN.
Stem sticky sap, spent dandelion
clutched in blue-veined hand,
slowly raised to cracked lips.
Eyes wide, she blew, wishing not.
Seeds and tenuous wisps dislodged,
age-old secrets sent to God.
Officially day one of NaPoWriMo! A poem a day during the month of April, National Poetry Writing Day. Today the prompt is to write about secrets.
family
mom, dad, son
me, last born
they waited nine years for me
now they wait again
mist hovers
floats above their graves
hushes sounds
muffles grief
head bowed, I know they miss me
I whisper, not yet
A shadorma written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya is our host today and explains that a shadorma is a syllabic poem consisting of six-line stanzas, each stanza defined in lines of 3-5-3-3-7-5 syllables. She asks us to be motivated by the title of the form and perhaps write about “fog, the paranormal, or the unexplained phenomena of death and life. ” I’ve also posted a second shadorma, Bermuda Beautiful. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Spirits beneath the blue
assuaged by filtered sun
and undulating sea grass.
Marauding masked visitors
disturb your sleep,
seek riches beyond the pale.
Wherein lies the treasure?
Corroded trinkets, ancient coins
or peace for lost immortal souls.
Delighted to host Tuesday Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Many folks across the globe celebrate holidays during the month of November and December and with that comes visitors to our homes and, perhaps, travel for us. Today, I’m asking folks to write a poem that includes the word “visit” or a form of the word. Photo is from last February’s visit to Bermuda. There are more than 300 sunken ships around the coast of Bermuda – a haven for adventurous divers. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time — come join us!
I am with you still.
My spirit
embued within the sky
floating midst the clouds
cool mist above rushing waters.
I walked this earth
stacked small rocks
in special places.
I cared.
Grieve not for me,
stand quietly.
Between your steps
feel me still.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. And we begin anew. Week 1 with 43 more to come. Today, Quadrille Week 1, the word to use within our poem is “rock” – or a form of the word. Come join us! A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words…sans title.
